Page 42 of And Now, Back to You

I press my palms to my thighs and clear my throat, feeling flustered. This news van has never felt so small.

“Never mind,” he says gruffly, his eyes intent on the road. He digs his knuckle into his cheek, jostling his glasses and then straightening them again. “I didn’t mean—”

“When I saw you sitting at the counter at the café,” I interrupt, “I thought it was a shame you’re so handsome because you have the personality of a wet piece of cardboard.”

There. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Jackson takes several seconds to process. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “You think I’m handsome?”

I snort. “I think you’re focused on the wrong part of that statement.”

“I don’t think so.” He grins, so sudden and uncharacteristic that it takes me several seconds to process. “I thought your smile was weird,” he offers.

“What?”

“Your smile,” he says again. “I thought it was odd.”

“In what way?” I ask, offended.

“You’re always smiling,” he answers. “Even when you don’t want to be.” His fingertips tap their way across the top of the steering wheel. “It’s weird,” he adds as an afterthought, that little line appearing between his eyebrows again. Thoughtful.

“I don’t like this game anymore.” I burrow back down into his jacket. “I say you’re handsome, and I get Your smile is weird.”

“Would you rather I lie?”

“No. I never want you to lie to me.” Maybe that’s the best part about working with Jackson. He’ll never tell me something untrue. He won’t tell me one thing, but mean another. I’ll always get the truth.

Still. He could use a little finesse.

“What’s wrong with being happy?” I begrudgingly ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Not if you actually feel it.”

I draw a tiny snowflake in the condensation on the bottom-right corner of the window, my eyes suddenly tight. “I feel it.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Usually. Most of the time. When it matters, I guess.

“Hmm,” Jackson offers, and something about the short, knowing sound has frustration pulling tight across my shoulders. I sit up straighter, his jacket slipping down to pool in my lap.

“Well, I’m certainly not feeling it right now,” I snap.

Jackson rolls his lips against a grin and my stare turns narrow-eyed. I imagine the satisfaction of a spitball, right to his temple. A crumpled up Post-it note to the middle of his forehead.

“You’re infuriating, do you know that?”

“I’ve been told a time or two.” He hits the blinker, shifting over lanes while checking the mirrors. “Do you want to know another thing? Something I thought when I saw your broadcast outside of the aquarium?”

I didn’t realize he’s been watching my broadcasts. I pick at a stray piece of thread poking out at the bottom of his jacket, twisting it around and around until it snaps. Curiosity is a terrible thing.

“What?”

“I was . . . irritated . . . by the turtle costume.” The blush on his neck creeps up, along the line of his throat. “So do with that what you will.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Yes,” he sighs. “You do.”